Free My Hollywood by Mona Simpson Page B

Mooney my grandparents were in town,” Paul said. “But it’s probably okay, don’t you think? I only asked to get out early once before.”
    The once before his grandparents really were in town. Paul never did this for us—Little Him and me—which was how I thought of myself now. As an “us.” But I liked the idea of the other couple.
    I picked clothes in a flurry while Lola fought Will into the bath. “ You to do it!” he screamed, reaching for me as I tried to blast the blow-dryer onto my bad hair, all three of us in the room, William naked, me shirtless, and Lola dressed. I’d hardly spent any time with him today. I’d driven for an hour to the Colburn School to talk about teaching, and then it was him or a shower. I gave up on blow-drying and stepped into his bath. Lola understood my problems. She did our laundry, but I buried the ruined underwear, in garbage cans in the alley. When I stepped out, she handed me a new package of briefs. “From Chinatown. All cotton. Ten pieces for twenty dollar.”
    On our front step, William reached from her arms, screaming as I tripped in my heels, which sank, muddying in the sprinkled lawn, fog winding around my bare legs. You need tights here at night, I guess. And you have to stay on pavement. I walked into the loud, warm restaurant in a jacket with wet hair. My hand went to my head. Did I look okay? That was a question I’d been asking myself for at least a decade. The one thing more intimidating than growing up average with a beautiful mother is growing up average with a beautiful mother in LA.
    Piped-in music made a score for my movements. Elton John. I liked it but it was loud. I wouldn’t feel lonely tonight, I thought, sliding into the booth, but I was disappointing Will.
    Jeff signaled the waiter to get me a drink. He was good at drinks.
    “How’s the mothers’ group?” As a child, I’d been taught to remember something a person said and bring it up the next time.
    “Oh, I’ve got to do that. But we’re looking for a nanny. How’d you find Lola?”
    “She did it,” Paul said. “She saw her and hired her.”
    “At a bus stop,” I said, crossing my arms.
    “Wow,” Helen said. “Lucky.”
    Then Paul asked Jeff a question about the new head of comedy at Disney and they were off. I was left with her. We sat quiet a minute—two women with hands folded on the table.
    “It’s weird isn’t it, having this substitute for you every day?” I said. “I’m not even gay and William has two mommies.”
    “Wait a minute,” Paul said, turning, “you’re not gay?”
    “Well, I would be if it weren’t for …”
    “Oh, come on, Claire, we could do it,” Helen said.
    Both men looked at us. I felt flattered.
    “We should hire male nannies,” I said. “See how they’d like being duplicated.”
    “Oh, these little boys would love—”
    Suddenly, Jeff turned. “Before we do that, you’ll stay home and take care of him.”
    “Yes, yes,” she shushed. Their deal was tight. “We’re just joking.”
    I looked at Paul. We’d talk about this later. But what was our deal? I wouldn’t have signed the one we lived by, which was that I worried about everything. But I supposed you couldn’t make someone worry fifty-fifty.
    “What’re you working at?” Paul asked Helen. She worked! To say I was surprised was an understatement: looking the way she looked was a full-time job.
    “She wants to write,” her husband said. “And she’s talented.”
    “What’re you writing?”
    “Poems, mostly. There’s a contest. A poet I really love is judging this year. Sharon Olds.”
    So many women here said they were artists. A surgeon didn’t have to contend with other mothers at dinner saying that they were actually surgeons too.
    I was out of practice. Paul asked Jeff how he’d come out here. The waiter came to take our orders.
    “Guess I called back some Hollywood guy who’d left a message,” Jeff said. “I think her getting pregnant did it. My dad